MARIAN'S FIRST DAY IN SCHOOL
THERE was no kindergarten in the Home for Little Pilgrims when Marian
was a baby. The child was scarcely five when she marched into the
schoolroom to join the changing ranks of little folks who were such a
puzzle to their teacher. Every day one or more new faces appeared in
that schoolroom and every day familiar faces were gone. For that reason
alone it was a hard school to manage.
The teacher, who had been many years in the Home, smiled as she found
a seat for Marian in the front row. Marian at least might be depended
upon to come regularly to school: then, too, she would learn easily
and be a credit to her instructor. Plain dresses and short hair might
do their worst, the face of the child attracted attention. The teacher
smiled again as Marian sat in the front seat before her, with hands
folded, waiting to see what might happen next.
Roll call interested the child. She wondered why the little girls and
boys said "Present" when the teacher read their names from a big book.
Once in a while when a name was called, nobody answered. Finally the
teacher, smiling once more, said, "Marian Lee." The little girl sat
perfectly still with lips tightly closed.
"You must say 'present' when your name is called," suggested the
teacher.
No response.
"Say present," the teacher repeated.
"But I don't like this kind of play," Marian protested, and then
wondered why all the children laughed and the teacher looked annoyed.
"But you must say present," the young lady insisted and Marian obeyed,
though she thought it a silly game.
The things that happened in the schoolroom that morning were many and
queer. A little boy had to stand on the floor in front of the teacher's
desk because he threw a paper wad. Then when the teacher wasn't looking
he aimed another at Marian and hit her on the nose and when Marian
laughed aloud, the teacher, who didn't know what happened, shook her
head and looked cross. It distressed Marian so to have the teacher look
cross that she felt miserable and wondered what folks went to school
for anyway. A few moments later, she knew. The primer class was called
and Marian, being told to do so, followed a dozen Little Pilgrims to
the recitation seat where she was told that children go to school to
learn their letters. Marian knew her letters, having learned them from
the blocks in the nursery.
"You must learn to read," advised the teacher, and Marian stared
helplessly about the schoolroom. She felt sure it wouldn't be a bit of
fun to learn to read. Nor was it, if her first lesson was a sample.
It wasn't long before Marian was tired of sitting still. She wasn't
used to it. At last she remembered that in her pocket was a china doll,
an inch high. On her desk was the new primer. The cover was pasteboard
and of course one could chew pasteboard. The china doll needed a crib
and as there seemed nothing to make a crib of but the cover of her
primer, Marian chewed a corner of it, flattened it out and fitted the
doll in. It pleased her, and she showed it to the little girl in the
next seat. Soon the teacher noticed that Marian was turning around and
showing her primer to all the children near, and the children were
smiling.
"Marian, bring your book to me," said the teacher. Then there was
trouble. Little Pilgrims had to be taught not to chew their books. The
teacher gave Marian what one of the older girls called a "Lecture," and
Marian cried.
"I didn't have anything to do," she sobbed.
"Nothing to do?" exclaimed the teacher, "why, little girl, you should
study your lesson as you see the other children doing. That is why you
are in school--to study."
Marian went to her seat, but how to study she didn't know. She watched
the other children bending over their books, making noises with their
lips, so she bent over her primer and made so much noise the teacher
told her she must keep still.
"Why, Marian," said the young lady, "what makes you so naughty? I
thought you were a good little girl!"
Poor Marian didn't know what to think. Tears, however, cleared her
views. She decided that as going to school was a thing that must be
endured because Mrs. Moore would be displeased otherwise, it would do
no good to make a fuss. She would draw pictures on her slate or play
with the stones in her pocket--anything to pass the time. There was
a great deal in knowing what one could or could not do safely, and
Marian learned that lesson faster than she learned to read. When she
was dismissed that afternoon, the little girl flew to the nursery to
tell Mrs. Moore about her first school day. Soon after when Marian ran
laughing into the hall on her way to the playground, she met Janey
Clark who sat behind her in school.
"Is Mrs. Moore your ma?" asked Janey.
"What's a ma?" inquired Marian, seizing Janey's two hands.
"A ma," was the reply, "why a ma is a mother. Is Mrs. Moore your
mother?"
"Maybe," agreed Marian. "Oh, no, she isn't either. I know all about
mothers, we sing about 'em, of course. I guess I never had one."
"My mother just died," declared Janey, tossing her head in an important
way that aroused Marian's envy.
"Well, mine died too!" responded Marian.
"Did you have a funeral?" persisted Janey.
"Did you?" Marian cautiously inquired.
"Well I should say yes," was the reply.
"Then I did too," observed Marian.
"Well," remarked Janey, "that's nothing to brag of; I don't suppose
there's anybody in this Home that got here unless all their folks died
dead. We are here because we don't belong anywhere else, and we are
going to be given away to folks that'll take us, pretty soon."
That was too much for Marian. "Why, Janey Clark, what a talk!" she
exclaimed, then turning, she ran back to the nursery.
"Nanna, Nanna!" she cried, "where's my mother?"
Mrs. Moore almost dropped a fretful baby at the question.
"Did I ever have a mother?" continued the child, whose dark blue eyes
looked black she was so much in earnest. "I thought mothers were just
only in singing, but Janey Clark had a mother and she died, and if
Janey Clark had a mother, I guess I had one too that died."
The fretful baby was given to an assistant and Mrs. Moore took Marian
in her lap. "What else did Janey tell you?" she asked.
"Well, Janey said that all of us childrens are going to be gived away
to folks. Mrs. Moore, did all the childrens that live here have mothers
that died?"
"Not all of them, Marian, some of the mothers are living and the
children will go back to them: but your mother, little girl, will never
come back for you. God took her away when He sent you to us. We keep
little children here in our home until we find new fathers and mothers
for them. Sometimes lovely mothers come here for little girls like
you. How is it, Marian, do you want a mother?"
The child nodded her head and looked so pleased Mrs. Moore was
disappointed. It would be hard enough to part with the child anyway,
but to think she wished to go was surprising.
Two soft arms stole around Mrs. Moore's neck. "I'm going to have you
for my mother," Marian explained, "and I'm going to live here always. I
don't want to be gived away."